


Spies Aren't Forever (It's Not a Musical...Still About Spies)

by five_of_five



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Agent Curt Mega Has ADHD, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempt at Humor, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Canon, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, but they do fall in love over the course of two timelines if that's your thing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:21:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24418039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/five_of_five/pseuds/five_of_five
Summary: "Curt’s contact was a SIS agent named Carter. Possibly Cooper, no. The name made Curt hungry for a steak when he read it…Carver, but British and spelt stupid. Carvour, that was it."A love story about spies told in two timelines. Once Agents Curt Mega and Owen Carvour were spies who fell in love, then Owen fell. Now not only will they spy again but they also have a second chance at love again, if they can just get past all the hurt feelings, murder, and betrayal.
Relationships: Owen Carvour/Agent Curt Mega
Comments: 35
Kudos: 40





	1. Overture

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StarWitness42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarWitness42/gifts).



> This is all your fault. I haven't written anything for fun in three years and if it weren't for your constant support I would still be staring at a blank page. I love you darling!

_Journeys end in lovers meeting  
— William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night_

1951 – Buenos Aires

Unites States policy in Argentina was one of containment, limit the country’s ability to develop independent economic growth and prevent communist, and more importantly Soviet, expansion in the Americas. The results of the upcoming election were a forgone conclusion, President Juan Perón would be reelected despite the economic instability Argentina was currently facing, defeating his Socialist opponent. However, his social politics still posed a threat to United States interests. Of particular concern, this week at least, was Perón’s eagerness to shelter Nazi war criminals. The U.S. had been increasing the number of nuclear tests, including televised demonstrations, as both a display of military superiority and grandstanding in the never-ending pissing contest with the Soviet Union. Unfortunately one of the Nazi project leaders from Germany’s nuclear weapons program, Commander von Evil, had taken refuge in Argentina; and while he wasn’t a scientist on the project, he had escaped with significant research which could not fall into Soviet hands. At least that was what Assistant Director Houston had told Curt before shoving him out of her office with a slap on the back of his head and a growled, “Don’t fuck this up, Mega”.

This was to be an interagency assignment; Curt’s contact was a SIS agent named Carter. Possibly Cooper, no. The name made Curt hungry for a steak when he read it…Carver, but British and spelt stupid. Carvour, that was it.

Do all those ‘ou’s change the pronunciation, Curt wondered, stepping into the rundown bar where he was supposed to be meeting Agent Carvour, or rather his alias Frenchy French-Guy, fuck. Curt pulled out his wallet, pretending to check the cash inside, reading the note he had slipped in with the bills. Carvour’s alias was Jacques Clouseau, Curt confirmed also quickly that was right about the weird spelling of Carvour’s name. What was with the British making everything more complicated? Color did not need a ‘u’ in it. And the way they pronounce things, how is a guy supposed to understand what the hell they’re saying half the time, al-u-min-i-um. That’s not a word.

Curt stumbled as someone entering the bar knocked into him where he was standing blocking the entrance as he pondered deep philosophical linguistic differences.

“Shit,” he moved to the side and started scanning the bar for a pale, horse-faced, aging spy with bad teeth. The bar only had two patrons, apart from himself, three now with the guy who just knocked into him, a bartender and a waitress.

There was a guy in a booth by the kitchen door who looked to be in his thirties, brown hair, probably drunk judging by the empty bottle and the way he was leaning on the table. Guy at the bar was older, maybe sixty, definitely a local, he sat on the stool like it was formed around his ass and the bartender had given him a free refill. No one that old gets free drinks unless they’re a regular, that also made the bartender unlikely, if a local was so friendly with him. The jackass who knocked into Curt was right out, spies are invalided out for major injuries, and missing a leg definitely qualifies. None of them looked likely as a British agent.

“Mon ami!” A deep, warm voice called out from the corner booth. Curt reexamined the dark-haired man he had dismissed earlier; attractive, crooked smile, tan, about three-days of beard growth. The drunken lean had reformed into a casual slouch and he wore similar attire to the other locals Curt had met since landing. As Curt moved to join the still smiling man waving him over, he noted absently that the booth provided clear line of sight to both the front and bathroom doors and as he neared the kitchen Curt spotted a service entrance which would provide a speedy getaway should the meeting go south.

“It’s been too long,” Curt enthused, stepping forward to hug the handsome—not thinking about that—probable contact. Now that he was closer, Curt could see the man was younger than his original estimate, closer to Curt’s early twenties, the beard helping to mask his age. “Oh, how I would like for you to remember, the happy days when we were friends.” Curt spoke his half of the code phrase in a low tone as they pulled apart from the embrace.

“Back then, life was more beautiful, and the sun burned brighter than today,” Carvour replied in an equally soft voice, confirming both his identity and Curt’s suspicion that his British accent was sexy—not thinking about that—as hell.

“Curt Mega,” Curt said, settling into the booth, adjusting his body language to reflect the slouch Carvour had been in earlier, and mentally adjusting his plan for the rest of this meeting to factor in a fellow agent that was a peer rather than a superior.

“Owen Carvour, but don’t tell anyone,” he winked. “I’m Jacques Clouseau to anybody asking.” Huh, you don’t pronounce it differently, Curt mused staring at Carvour as he signaled the waitress over, “Dos cervezas, por favor,” Carvour ordered in accented but rapid Spanish.

“I was expecting a pasty birdwatcher,” Curt blurted once the waitress left, closing his eyes at the over-correction into informal. “I mean, I expected you to be older…and stuff,” he finished lamely.

“Desolé,” Carvour switched back to his cover’s accent. “I’ve been in country as a French expat hiding from authorities who wish to prosecute me as a collaborator for the past six months, give or take. I suppose the climate agrees with me.”

Curt nodded his head, briefly appreciating just how agreeable Carvour looked, before clearing his throat and giving the bar a quick glance to ensure they were still speaking privately. “I understand you’ve been working as a provocateur, embedded with fringe political groups.” Carvour nodded, a small smile still gracing his lips as he mirrored Curt’s down-to-business posture. “I need information on a Nazi who’s recently been smuggled into the country, Commander von Evil.”

*

1961 – The New Democratic Republics of Old Socialist Prussian Slovaskia

“Personal history does have its benefits, Mega.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue in 1961 borrowed from _Spies Are Forever_
> 
> The code phrase used by Curt and Owen in the flashback is from the poem _Les Feuilles Mortes_ by Jacques Prévert. I know nothing about poetry, it was just French and pretty.
> 
> The name for Owen’s cover ID is borrowed from Inspector Clouseau, a character from Blake Edward’s _The Pink Panther_.
> 
> Commander von Evil was not a real person, although real Nazis did take refuge in Argentina during this time period. However much like the source material SAF, I did not want to deal with actual RL Nazis and their horribleness and will not be giving them any time in my fic.


	2. Spies Are Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How-how are you here? _Why_ are you here? I watched you _fall!_ You’re dead.”

_There must have been a moment, at the beginning, where we could have said - - no. But somehow we missed it.  
— Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead_

1961 – The New Democratic Republics of Old Socialist Prussian Slovaskia

Curt can’t hear anything, it’s like he’s falling, nothing but a roar in his ears and his heart in his throat. How is this possible? Owen is alive. Owen is walking and talking and putting on his jacket and accusing him of being a reckless idiot who gets everyone killed.

“How-how are you here? _Why_ are you here? I watched you _fall!_ You’re dead.”

“Ah well, _part_ of me is. Hell, I probably spent as much time hating you as you did,” Owen smiles slightly. “But then I realized what that night had taught me. Perhaps putting the fate of the world in the hands of an arrogant, impulsive _brute_ is simply not the best option.”

That’s fair.

Curt takes a deep breath, forcing air into too-tight lungs. That’s…Owen’s right to be angry and Curt can’t blame him because he’s right and Curt fucked it all up and got his partner killed—not killed—and he can never take it back. Owen can say anything he wants about Curt, because Owen is alive.

As long as Owen stays alive, he can say whatever he likes. He can keep calling Curt stupid and monologuing about suspiciously shady organizations that sound like they’re probably evil and okay that doesn’t sound right, what kind of name is Chimera?

Curt shakes his head, certain he misheard. “This Chimera was what, funding von Nazi’s schemes?” That doesn’t sound like Owen.

“Oh very good, Curt. Finally catching up with the rest of us.” Owen toasts Curt sarcastically.

“But what use is a Nazi nation to Chimera?!” Curt demands desperately.

None of this makes sense. Owen would never work with the Nazis or for an organization that would support the Nazis. And if Owen isn’t acting like Owen then maybe that’s not Owen. And if that’s not Owen, then…. Owen.

But that is Owen. Now that The Deadliest Man Alive mask he wore is gone, Curt can see all the clues he missed before. Not just his face and his voice, but how he moves. Owen has been stalking around the room, darting over to von Nazi’s body and puppeteering his corpse, then over to the table pouring himself a drink. Every move is carefully careless. He avoids the expanding blood pool when kneeling next to von Nazi, and never exposes his back to the threats in the room, always keeping the conference table between him and them. It has to be Owen.

What? Birds. Surveillance technology. Thank God Tatiana is paying closer attention than Curt is at the moment. Chimera was using von Nazi, that means…it is Owen.

“Why drag this out till now if you’ve had it the entire time?” Curt focuses in on Owen—definitely Owen—as he waves the land deed in their faces getting more frustrated as they fail to grasp his plan.

“Those stores of silicon beneath the Earth’s crust will allow us to mass produce von Nazi’s technology and deploy his system on a global scale!” Owen explodes. “I’d have all the world’s secrets. I’d be God,” He chuckles softly. “Now what a role that would be, eh?”

“My government will never allow this,” Curt swallows hard against the tightness in his chest that still insists Owen will never allow it either.

“Not even the Soviets will,” Tatiana says, standing strong beside him.

Curt watches the two of them face off against each other; Tatiana fierce and defiant, Owen brutal in his gentility. 

“Good thing we’re here to stop you,” Curt raises his gun a half-step behind his friends, aiming near Owen. “Give it up.”

“What?”

“The technology,” Curt is confused and hurt, nothing makes sense anymore, he just wants this night to be over. “The surveillance network, we’re gonna destroy it,” yes, that’s the answer. Blow it up. Do _something_. Stop talking. Stop thinking. Just _do_ something.

Owen laughs and there it is again, that plummeting sensation in his chest. Owen is building to something, a huge reveal and a dramatic finish. Christ, Owen was right, he really should have been an actor. Curt doesn’t know this Owen, but he _knows_ Owen. Four years of distance and a rapid ripping off of the Band-Aid barely covering the gaping wound left by Owen’s death has provided the necessary clarity to see Owen in this moment and Curt knows that Owen can be petty and merciless, especially when he’s hurt.

More importantly, Curt knows that when Owen is in this mood, he likes to play with his food. It’s not enough to hurt someone who hurt you, they have to suffer before they die. There was a time when Owen used that vicious cruelty to protect Curt. A time when Owen put two bullets in a random Russian guard’s kneecaps for touching Curt and called it mercy.

Now Curt is staring at Owen from the wrong end of a grudge and he _knows_ his suffering has only just begun. Curt moves between Tatiana and The Informant.

Who do you save?

“A bit of advice, dear, if you choose to work with the infamous Curt Mega, take caution,” Owen smirks, his hand moving inside his jacket. “His partners don’t tend to last.”

Curt pushes Tatiana to the ground, trusting her to follow his lead and drop, using the force of the shove to move himself in front of The Informant as Owen fires and Curt falls backwards.

That pain in his chest is back again, he thinks fuzzily.

*

1951 – Buenos Aires

Curt’s chest felt tight. Anticipation, anxiety, and adrenaline made for quite the unholy trinity and Curt was worried he might have a heart attack right there in the passenger seat of Carvour’s car before they got down to business.

That is to say, before he and Carvour had a chance to see any action. Nope, not better.

Their initial meeting three days ago had ended amicably, with both parties separating to carry out their respective tasks. Carvour had contacts within Perón’s government in addition to his activities with fringe political groups and would attempt to locate Commander von Evil through official channels. Curt, by virtue of being American, would be too conspicuous if he started asking questions about the location of a Nazi war criminal. Instead, he had spent the last seventy-two hours preparing quick escape routes out of the city, securing a contingency safe house, and acquiring armaments, as he’d been forced to come into the country bare.

Yesterday Carvour had broken into Curt’s hotel room and was waiting there when Curt returned from one of his special shopping trips. Carvour had von Evil’s location, he was staying at the small estate of a Nazi sympathizer located on the outskirts of the city. Curt and Carvour spent most of the evening formulating a plan to sneak Curt onto the estate so he could find the research von Evil had taken. They had to act quickly, the estate’s owner was traveling with his family and many members of the household staff had gone with them, but they were expected back within a few days. The estate was practically empty, except for two servants who didn’t live on the estate, and von Evil.

Carvour was vocal in his objection to moving ahead so quickly. Curt however pushed for them to take the risk, neither of them were happy with the rushed planning, but as Curt pointed out they wouldn’t get another opportunity like this again. Carvour was surprisingly easy to persuade, his protests overcome quickly and with much less whining than Curt was used to employing. He suspected that Carvour wanted to go ahead as much as Curt did, but the SIS handbook shoved up Carvour’s shapely ass prevented winging it.

“We should run through the plan again,” Carvour said, eyes fixed on the road.

Curt rolled his eyes, “Yeah, big shock there.”

“Mega.”

“Fine,” Curt sighed and straightened in his seat. “You’re picking up your buddy from the Coordinación de Informaciones de Estado, he’s the undersecretary and has been your primary contact within Perón’s government,” Curt paused. “How did you manage that anyway?”

“What do you mean?” Carvour’s eyes darted over to Curt briefly.

“I mean that this guy is nearly the head of Argentina’s equivalent to the CIA and he’s taking personal phone calls from a French expat. Why?”

“Oh, that,” Carvour shrugged. “I offered to work as a double agent for the Argentine government.”

“You _what?_ ”

Carvour reached over, his eyes never leaving the road, and patted Curt on the head like a particularly slow-witted puppy. “Don’t make that face, old boy. I’m not betraying anyone you know.”

“You’re not- I don’t,” Curt fumbled slightly, unsure if he should reach for his gun. “I don’t think that’s as comforting as you think it is.”

“I suppose what I should have said was, Jacques Clouseau offered to be a double agent for the Argentine government,” Carvour finally broke his staring contest with the road and winked at Curt. “When I first arrived good old Jacques got himself a girlfriend within the Socialist rebel party, very active young woman, in many ways. Jacques feeds the undersecretary information from Perón’s political opponents and keeps the undersecretary looking like a genius.”

“Oh,” Curt paused. “How do you keep from being killed by your girlfriend?”

“Simple really,” Carvour smiled that same ‘aren’t you a bit dim’ smile. “I made her the same offer I made the undersecretary. Her organization gets dribs and drabs from an official government source and never suspect a thing.”

“That sounds-”

“Dangerous?” Carvour asked, extremely pleased with himself. “Extremely.”

“I was going to say lonely,” Curt saw Carvour’s hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel. “Sorry, I didn’t mean…I just meant that it must be hard. To have been doing this all alone for so long.”

Silence settled over the car, thick and awkward. Did Curt always breath this loudly? He tried to breathe more quietly and instead was deafened by his heartbeat, that can’t be good. His vision started to go a little spotty and Curt took a deep, gasping breath as the world came back into focus.

Curt looked over at Carvour to see if he’d noticed Curt almost asphyxiating himself out of embarrassment and found Carvour staring directly at him.

“Ahem,” Curt cleared his throat, coughing a little in the process. “Are we at the rendezvous?”

Carvour just shook his head and, looking slightly bewildered, put the car back in gear and pulled onto the road again. Curt hadn’t even noticed him pulling off in the first place.

“It is,” Carvour’s voice was quiet, but in the silence of the car it almost seemed to echo.

“I’m sorry?” Curt found himself saying again.

Carvour sighed, “It is lonely.”

Oh. “Oh,” Curt really didn’t know how to reply to that statement after three minutes of near-total silence. “Do you…do you want to talk about it or-? Like do you need a hug or something?”

Carvour’s face contorted oddly, the car jerked, taking several turns at what seemed to Curt to be an unsafe speed before Carvour drove into a deserted parking structure, parked the car and began to laugh until tears fell from his eyes.

“Hey,” Curt’s hand hovered over Carvour’s back like it was waiting for clearance to land before finding safe ground in the space between Carvour’s shoulder blades. “Shit, hey. It’s okay,” Curt soothed, rubbing ever widening and narrowing circles on Carvour’s back. “I’m here, it’s okay.”

“S-six months,” Carvour hiccupped, no longer struggling to breathe past gasping laughter and wracking sobs. “Nearly six months I’ve been on this assignment, on my own, and I’ve been fine. Three days with you and I can’t keep my mouth shut,” he started giggling again in a way that clearly said nothing was funny. “I’ll be lucky if they just demote me to a paper pusher when I get back.”

“Hey,” and Curt really needed to read a thesaurus because what the fuck even was his vocabulary. “What are you talking about?”

Carvour sniffed deeply, drawing back in a long stream of snot, and okay that was the grossest thing Curt had ever seen and he had watched someone’s skull explode one time.

“It may have escaped your notice Curt, but while our countries are allies, we don’t work for the same governments. What I just told you was highly classified and directly related to my mission for the SIS, which you were not cleared to know,” red-rimmed eyes looked into Curt’s, “I fucked up and I can’t even tell you why.”

Curt’s free hand pulled out a handkerchief and deftly wiped Carvour—Owen’s—eyes. “If I were a betting man, I’d place money on you reaching a breaking point, for whatever reason. Maybe the isolation was getting to you more than you realized, maybe living three different lies at once was too much and you needed to trust somebody,” Curt pressed the handkerchief into Owen’s hands. “Hell maybe you’ve just had too much sun, I don’t know. But the important thing is that it happened here, now, with me and we can recover from this. No one else ever has to know.”

“Curt, you can’t withhold important information from your own agency, that’s treason.”

“Only if that information is of vital interest to the security and operations of the United States, which it’s not. So you Brits are doing more to destabilize Argentina than we had guessed, good for you?” Curt’s hand moved from Owen’s back to briefly cup his cheek before it resumed the rhythmic circling, “It’s not like we aren’t fucking around with their economy and poking at their government just as much in our own way.”

“Curt,” Owen closed his eyes and shook his head. “I can’t let you…if anyone found out.”

“Who’s going to find out? The only people in this car are you and me, it never goes any further, Owen.” Curt sat back in his seat and stared out the passenger window, allowing the distance to create the illusion of privacy so Owen could pull himself together.

They sat in silence again for another few minutes as the redness faded from Owen’s eyes and the pallor left his skin.

“Why?” Owen finally asked, looking over at Curt.

“Because you’re my partner.”

“That simple?” Owen pressed.

“Out here? Working without a net and no agency backup, yeah, it’s that simple,” Curt held his hand out bridging the scant space between them. “I need to trust you to have my back, which means that you can trust me to have yours. I won’t betray you.”

Owen stared at his hand for long seconds.

“Okay,” he smiled, reaching out to clasp Curt’s arm in return. “Partners.”

*

1961 – The New Democratic Republics of Old Socialist Prussian Slovaskia

“Curt!” Three voices call out in terror, The Informant’s arms wrapping around Curt’s waist, easing him to the ground. No, two voices. Why would there be three?

Curt doubles over, gasping for air, it feels like his lungs are seizing. Distantly he hears what sounds like a scuffle a few feet away as he begins coughing, The Informant still wrapped around him like a shield.

“Curt,” The Informant cries again, rocking Curt’s body.

“I’m okay,” he whispers. “Just got the wind knocked out of me.”

“Shhh, save your strength,” The-now-literally-weeping-Informant buries his face in Curt’s neck, the tears starting to soak uncomfortably into his shirt.

“Seriously, I think I can move,” Curt struggles out of his friend’s almost painfully tight embrace, into a kneeling position. “Ow, oh God. Ow, yeah everything is bruised.”

He looks up into Owen’s face, nearly even with his own, if slightly red-turning-purple. Curt quickly spots the reason for Owen’s current predicament as Tatiana exclaims extatically, “Curt!” from her position hunched over the kneeling and choking Owen, her arm around his throat.

Owen’s head slumps forward, and Curt scrambles across the few feet separating them, a desperate noise escaping his lips. Before he gets to his partners, Owen’s head snaps back into Tatiana’s face, as he throws an elbow into her ribs, the two of them tumbling down in a mess of limbs and cracked bone.

Curt hears the pained ‘oof’ Tatiana makes when Owen lands on her and the equally upsetting cry from Owen as Tatiana lands another blow. He crawl-runs over to them, launching himself between the two combatants.

“Stop,” Curt calls as loudly as he can, his chest still aching. “Please, both of you, please.”

Immediately Tatiana and Owen back down, Tatiana pulling Curt away back towards The Informant, and their side of the room.

“He tried to kill you,” Tatiana gestures between Owen and Curt. “Why are you stopping me?”

“It’s not like that, he didn’t,” Curt looks at Owen who is starting at Curt like he’s the ghost now.

“Like hell,” Tatiana rages, pacing back and forth.

“He was aiming at me,” The Informant chimes in. “You were on the ground, but Curt stepped in front of me.”

Tatiana’s mouth snaps shut, her eyes taking on a suspicious shine as she stalks forward until she is directly in front of Curt. “You could have died,” she slaps him across the face. “Next time, have a better plan.”

“Ow!” Curt rubs his cheek. “What the he-” Tatiana pulls him into a hug.

“The bulletproof vest was a good idea, but a better one would be no one getting shot,” she pulls back, rapping sharply against the spot where the bullet hole sits in his shirt.

“Fuck everything, seriously?!” Curt gasps, nearly doubling over again. “And you should thank Cynthia, she’s the one who’s taken to shooting me at random moments to make sure I wear the damn thing.”

“I thought,” Owen’s voice is almost swallowed by the room. He clears his throat and starts again, “I thought I had killed you. You weren’t wearing a vest last time.”

“Yeah, it ruined the line of my suit,” Curt’s grin is cut short by another smack from Tatiana. “Ow, stop hitting me,” he places The Informant between them for safety.

“Stop being an ass,” Tatiana replies unrepentant. “Now, what are we going to do with _him_?” She asks gesturing to Owen who is still standing near the middle of the room as though unsure if he should stay or run.

“ _We_ aren’t going to do anything,” Curt moves between Tatiana and Owen. “The two of you are going to go destroy that Chimera surveillance system compound thing, _I_ am going to have a conversation with Owen.”

“Curt,” Tatiana and The Informant both start to argue.

“No,” Curt cuts them off. “The mission is more important than any individual, that’s what they teach us. That’s what being a spy means,” Curt looks back at Owen. “But the only way to survive as a spy is if you can trust the people around you. No spy survives alone. So I need the two of you to complete the mission, call Barb she’ll know what to do, finish this.”

“Curt, I know you need to settle this, once and for all, but after everything he’s done,” Tatiana starts. Stops. She looks back at The Informant, biting her lip. “Curt,” she starts again, throwing her arms around Curt, close enough now to whisper, “I know how you feel, felt about him, but after everything he’s done, you don’t owe him anything.”

“Yeah I do,” Curt gives her a brief squeeze, stepping out of her arms. “I left him alone. You don’t do that to your partner.”

“You’re asking me to leave you alone.”

“No, I’m asking you to trust me,” Curt reaches for Tati’s hand with a soft smile before turning and giving The Informant’s shoulder and awkward pat with his free hand. “Go be heroes, it’s time to save the world.”

Tatiana nods, glancing over Curt’s shoulder to where Owen stands still frozen. “For both of us, I think. I hope you know what you’re doing, Curt.”

“Me too.”

“Alright, let’s go overthrow an evil power,” Tatiana squeezes Curt’s hand briefly before letting go and leading The Informant away. “And Curt,” Tati calls out as she closes the door, “Stay alive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of the dialogue in the first section of 1961 is lifted from _Spies Are Forever_.
> 
> I also want to point out that I in no way condone the behavior of the United States in Latin America which was/is appalling, and the attitudes of the characters do not reflect the attitude of the author.
> 
> This is also the point where canon meets divergence, I thought about picking the plot up from the stairwell, but that would still leave The Informant dead and I love them. Additionally, I wanted to payoff Cynthia shooting Curt, I have a Chekhov’s Gun problem with the joke if they weren’t going to have it be relevant that Curt’s taken to wearing a bulletproof vest regularly.


	3. The Coldest Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Curt shifted uncomfortably trying to get into a new position as quietly as possible. There had been a tire iron digging into his back since Owen shut him in the trunk and if he didn’t get some relief soon, he was going to scream."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider this an additional warning to the tags, this chapter contains some semi-graphic depictions of violence.
> 
> Also, this is a spy fic which means that the characters are much smarter and more capable than the author. As such, they can speak many languages which I cannot. Italics will be used to denote when the speaker's dialogue is entirely in a language other than English, the story will also reflect the change.

_And all men kill the thing they love,  
By all let this be heard,  
Some do it with a bitter look,  
Some with a flattering word,  
The coward does it with a kiss  
The brave man with a sword!  
— Oscar Wilde, The Ballad of Reading Gaol_

1951 – Buenos Aires

Curt shifted uncomfortably trying to get into a new position as quietly as possible. There had been a tire iron digging into his back since Owen shut him in the trunk and if he didn’t get some relief soon, he was going to scream. Which would be bad, because if he screamed, he would alert Undersecretary Fernandez to his being shut in the trunk of Owen’s car, and then Owen would kill him for ruining the entire operation and blowing Owen’s cover and not only was Curt too talented and handsome to die crammed in the trunk of a car, he and Owen had only just agreed that they were partners and could trust each other. So focus, eyes on the prize.

The car hit a pothole or some kind of bump in the road, slamming Curt back into the jabby-pain-metal-of-death. Curt muffled his grunt of agony the best he could, keeping an ear on the steady, low hum of conversation inside the car. The voices hadn’t wavered, reassuring Curt that he was still undiscovered and not soon-to-be-murdered.

Curt closed his eyes, think of the mission, he told himself, desperately trying focus on anything that wasn’t the sharp stab of metal digging into his spine. Remember the plan: shut Curt in Owen’s trunk, check; pick up Undersecretary Matías Fernandez from Argentinian State Intelligence, check. So far, so good on the plan.

Curt felt the car begin to slow, the surface under the tires becoming rougher, jostling Curt and driving the tire iron further into his skeletal structure with each bump and winding turn. Almost there, they had to be almost there. This was definitely the ‘use Undersecretary Fernandez to smuggle foreign spies onto the estate’ part of the plan’. Soon Curt could advance to the ‘stealthily sneaking out of car and into the house’ stage. Curt loved that part of the plan, it was the best part, he was never getting in a trunk again unless he was dead first.

The car stopped, Curt heard a brief murmur of conversation, two car doors opened and slammed shut. He waited, holding his breath until he heard three sharp raps on the trunk, Owen’s prearranged signal that they had arrived at the estate and the courtyard was clear. Curt counted out thirty seconds to let Owen usher Fernandez into the house before he popped open the trunk a few inches and glanced about to ensure that he was still alone. Not seeing anyone, he crept out slowly and promptly collapsed onto the gravel, his legs giving out from being cramped in one position for so long, the nerves in his back tingling and shooting out sharp pains.

“Fuck, shitting, fuck,” Curt hissed, closing the trunk as quietly as possible and hobble-walking over to the side of the house where shadow and bushes provided some cover. Definitely never getting into a trunk again unless he was already a corpse.

Curt looked about, noting various key features to better orient his position and determine where he needed to go next. Owen had been able to obtain blueprints of the estate which he spent all of last night drilling into Curt’s head. Reluctantly, Curt had to admit the study session had been well-spent, he could probably walk these grounds blindfolded. Curt circled the house until he came to the kitchen entrance, it was locked, but that was no match for the great Curt Mega.

No match at all. Any second now this lock was going to meet its match and its match would be, Mega.

Goddammit. Hold the tension wrench, apply some torque, slide in the hook pick, find the pin…move the pin, where is the pin. Gotcha. Move the pin. Click. Curt fist pumped his success, definitely the greatest spy. He opened the door with a grin, sliding inside silently.

Through the partially open door to his left he could hear voices, Owen, Fernandez, and von Evil discussing…whatever it was that Owen’s cover identity had concocted to get himself a meeting with von Evil. Curt was kinda fuzzy on that bit, not his area. Owen had assured Curt that between dinner and drinks he should be able to distract von Evil for at least an hour, ninety minutes if they were lucky. That gave Curt plenty of time to search the house for the nuclear weapons research. If it were up to Curt this would have been an extraction, hit von Evil over the head, burn down the estate and any research hidden inside, and bring him back to Geneva to face trial for war crimes; but Assistant Director Houston wanted to know how much information von Evil had, what he might have already sold to the Soviets and if possible nab the Russian agent he’s dealing with in Argentina.

Curt made his way upstairs, still musing about the vagaries of international politics. Whatever research von Evil had was at least six years behind anything the U.S. or the U.S.S.R had access to, it didn’t make sense for both governments to be so eager to get their hands on the information von Evil was selling. At least Assistant Director Houston’s (Curt was afraid to call her Cynthia even in his own head, but he was considering giving it a try just for brevity’s sake) interest made sense, she was interested because the Soviets were interested. If Curt could manage to roll up the Russian agent von Evil was in contact with, that could be a blow to Communist activities in this part of South America. However, that still doesn’t answer the question: why are the Soviets interested in von Evil?

After searching three rooms Curt wasn’t any closer to an answer to his question or the nuclear weapons program research. There was something he was missing, it was like a song lyric he couldn’t remember, dancing on the tip of his brain, taunting him. Whatever the feeling was, it made Curt uneasy. He paused in his search of somebody’s study to open the door and check on the voices below, they still sounded light and amiable, Owen was fine. Curt hurried through the search, still nothing. He moved across the hall to one of the bedrooms, he hadn’t found von Evil’s room yet and that was the most likely place.

Jackpot. Curt breathed a sigh of relief, this had to be von Evil’s room, the décor was…a bit on the nose for a despicable Nazi fugitive. No one else could be so completely lacking in taste. He slipped into the room, taking a moment to allow his eyes to adjust from the brighter light in the hall. Curt took a step forward, deciding where to begin the search, when he felt cold metal brush through his hair as the barrel of a gun pressed against the back of his head.

*

1961 – The New Democratic Republics of Old Socialist Prussian Slovaskia

Curt briefly rests his forehead against the closed door of the run-down hotel located in one of the seedier areas of the Prussian-Sloviskian Capitol. The clerk hadn’t batted an eye at two men checking in together, and judging by the comments he had made, it’s unlikely that they’ll be disturbed by nosy neighbors or the police making morality raids. The New Old Democratic Socialist Whatever was, if not open minded regarding the personal lives of their citizens, at least indifferent, and that was better than could be said of most Western Democracies at the moment.

Of course, The Old New Socialist Republics of Something had just seen their prince get assassinated; so it’s possible that they are just as bigoted as every other nation; but are a bit busy with other things at the moment. Curt lightly hits his head against the door again before turning around to face Owen who quickly turns away from examining Curt’s back to look over the room.

“You always take me the nicest places, Curt,” he gestures to the yellow smoke-stained walls and the let’s-not-think-about-what-that-is-stained bedspread.

“Yeah well, according to the concierge your ass could definitely fetch a much better-priced hotel than this, but I told him we were in a rush,” Curt shrugs, not sure if he’s apologetic or goading Owen.

“Is that so?” Owen stalks forward, eyes raking over Curt from top to toe and back again. “And how exactly did I end up as the bit of rough in this transaction?”

“I was paying for the room,” Curt puts a hand on Owen’s chest, stopping him from coming any closer. Owen pushes against Curt’s feeble barrier, forcing Curt to bend and allow him to keep moving or push back and risk a confrontation.

Curt folds, letting Owen crowd nearer until they’re practically sharing the same breath and he’s looking up into Owen’s unreadable eyes. “Is that what you want, Curt? Is that why we’re here?”

“Fuck you,” Curt says faintly, licking his lips.

“That’s kind of the idea, isn’t it?” Owen looms over Curt and Christ, Curt had forgotten how tall Owen was, how it felt like he could surround and shelter and consume Curt. He presses in closer, Curt’s hand trapped between their bodies, a forgotten obstacle. “How long has it been, Curt?” As he grazes Curt’s cheek with his lips, whispering the words against his ear. “Don’t tell me you haven’t even had a pity fuck in the last four years?”

“Fuck you,” Curt says stronger this time, pushing off a laughing Owen. Curt uses the momentary distance to slide away from the door and into the main section of the room, more space to move, farther from the exit. Even trade at this point.

“I take it that’s a ‘no’ on the tumble then?”

“Back in the Capitol, after Tatiana left, I told you that you could run and I wouldn’t stop you,” Curt says quietly. “Or we could leave together, and both get some answers.”

Owen shifts uncomfortably, “I remember, it was barely thirty minutes ago.”

“Yeah,” Curt nods his head. “So I guess what I’m asking is, did you change your mind? Do you want to play fucking mind games now? Because if that’s why you came with me, then there’s the door, Owen. Go back to Chimera, tell them that we’ve destroyed your secret base thing and you’ll need a new source of silicon because the Prussian-Solviskian’s won’t be supplying the land anymore.”

“That’s not why I’m here,” Owen takes a step forward, but stops when Curt shifts away from him. “Can I- fuck. Can I come over there?”

Curt breathes, exhales, nods once.

Owen gently reaches up and places his hand on Curt’s chest over the bullet hole in his shirt. “You were moving so slowly after your…friends…left. Between the pain and the adrenaline crash, I wasn’t sure you would make it out of the Capitol building without help,” Owen takes his hand away.

“Why do you care?” Curt asks his voice slipping close to desperate. “You were going to shoot my friend and run, a few days ago you tortured me and shot me and left me for dead. Why does it matter if I die now?”

“Because a few days ago I wasn’t Owen Carvour, and now I am,” Owen moves away to sit on the edge of the bed.

“I don’t understand,” Curt stays standing, arms crossed and defensive.

“I told you that I rehearsed becoming The Deadliest Man Alive, well it was more than just practicing an accent,” Owen starts picking at a loose thread in the bedspread. “I researched him. His habits, his mannerisms, every aspect of who he was until I could mimic them and play the role to perfection. Somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like a role and he started feeling like me.”

“You lost Owen Carvour,” Curt lowers his arms. “Can I ask, what happened the actual man who called himself ‘The Deadliest Man Alive’ that you based your persona on?”

“Does it matter?”

“Not especially,” Curt says. “But according to our agency’s records, The Deadliest Man Alive has killed over a thousand people.”

“One thousand, one hundred fifty, to be exact,” Owen corrects.

“Right. The Deadliest Man also has a preference for females aged fourteen to twenty-two,” Curt winces. “Cynthia would probably call me a crazy sentimentalist, but I don’t see you as a deranged serial killer.”

“That’s kind of you, considering everything.”

“Considering everything,” Curt repeats, “My guess is that you found the most lethal and prolific murderer in the world, studied him until you could become him, killed him, and took his place. Only with you wearing his face, he was the most lethal and prolific murderer for hire that could be found, and every job benefited Chimera.”

“Very good, Curt,” Owen pulls at the thread some more.

“Fuck you,” Curt says again, making Owen laugh.

“This is exactly what I’m trying to explain to you, Curt,” Owen gestures to his fading grin. “I spent almost two years as The Deadliest Man Alive, two years inhabiting his skin, reacting to situations as he would react.”

“So when you saw me again…”

“Don’t get me wrong, I wanted to hurt you. I still want to hurt you. I _hate_ you for what you did to me, how you left me there to die,” Owen goes back to the loose thread. “But he was the one who wanted you to suffer. He was the one who could pull the trigger.”

Curt swallows, blinking his eyes against an emotion he doesn’t want to name, “What about Owen, what does he want from me? From this?”

“That’s the funny part, I had a plan,” Owen smiles sadly up at Curt.

“A plan?”

“Yup, a good plan. It involved getting you to chase me across a decent portion of the Soviet Bloc, with me always one step ahead of you,” the thread was now several inches long, pulling taught against the bedspread. “There were to be some close calls and thrilling fights to prove that I was the better spy followed by a showdown in a Russian weapons facility I found that was nearly identical to the one you left me to die in four years ago.”

“Sounds dastardly, how did your plan end?”

“That’s the thing,” Owen gives the thread a final yank and snaps it free. “I never could figure that part out.”

Curt sits next to Owen on the bed, “We can think of something.”

“We?” Owen asks, shifting slightly next to Curt. “You do realize, darling, that the likely culmination of my perfect plan was the grisly death of one or both of us, yes?”

“Yes well, you always were a bit theatrical,” Curt concedes. “That’s why we made such great partners, I was the level-headed one.”

“Excuse you?”

Curt knocks his shoulder against Owen’s, “Okay, we’re both melodramatic idiots and it’s a miracle we didn’t manage to start World War III,” his words turn bitter, “As it was, I still managed to get you killed. Go me.”

“Curt-”

“I want to help you, Owen,” Curt cuts him off, reaching across the scant space between them, brushing his fingers gently against Owen’s. “I don’t know if you want my help, or if you can accept it, or…I just know that I can’t lose you again.”

“What about Chimera?”

“Do you want to keep working for them?”

“I- It’s complicated,” Owen allows his hand to tangle briefly with Curt’s before pulling away.

“Then talk to me,” Curt begs. “The more you talk to me, the less you sound like the man who tried to torture me to death a few days ago, and the more you sound like the man I,” Curt takes a breath, “the Owen I used to know.”

“Is this about understanding my point of view or getting the Owen you remember back? Because I meant what I said, that part of me is dead.”

“This is about the future,” Curt tilts his head so he can look Owen in the eyes. “This is about us not being able to move forward until I know what you’ve been through the last four years. And until you know my story, too.”

“Curt,” Owen scoffs. “I’ve spent the last four years orchestrating a complicated revenge scheme largely centered around you. Do you really think I don’t know what you’ve been up to since I didn’t die?”

“I get it, you’ve been lurking in the shadows, watching my every move,” Curt rolls his eyes. “But that doesn’t mean you understand shit about what my life has been like since you died. If you want to go round for round in the ‘who has suffered more’ Olympics then I will match you pain for pain, Owen. I don’t doubt that you went through hell, but that is _nothing_ compared to losing you.”

Owen blinks first, turning to examine the nondescript landscape painting on the wall, giving them both a reprieve.

“I want to move forward too,” Owen says quietly. “I’m tired of being angry and I’m tired of trying to hate you. I’m rubbish at it and it’s,” he turns back to smile sadly at Curt, “it’s bloody exhausting.”

“Okay,” Curt nods eagerly. “We can do that. We can do anything. Start at the beginning, what happened,” he ducks his head, then forces his eyes up. If Owen can do this, so can Curt. “What happened after I left you behind in the Russian weapons facility?”

*

1951 – Buenos Aires

The voices trailed off as Curt came down the stairs in front of his captor, hands linked behind his head. The gunman was holding onto his collar, what felt like a .22 caliber with a suppressor attached was pressed against his neck. Together they entered a lounge like a double act without musical accompaniment. Dinner apparently over, the three gentlemen had adjourned to the lounge for drinks. Fernandez and Owen (Jacques Clouseau, had to remember that) were sitting together on a plush leather couch opposite a weaselly-looking man who could only be von Evil.

Owen—Clouseau—Clousowen(?) set his drink down with a harsh clink against the table, as all three men got to their feet. _”What is going on?”_ He asked in his accented Spanish, directing the question to Fernandez.

_“I believe Mr. Vassiliev has caught an intruder,_ Fernandez smiled at, Clouseau-fuck-it-Owen in a way that made Curt nervous. _“Come friend, let us see what he has to say for himself.”_

Curt made a split-second decision, he hadn’t spoken a word to the now-identified gunman, they had communicated mainly through grunts and rough handling to indicate where he wanted Curt to go. Better to be underestimated and taken for a fool than by surprise.

“Um…hola,” Curt said as flatly American as possible, he felt Vassiliev and Fernandez share a look.

_“Where was he when you caught him?”_ Fernandez directed the question to Vassiliev.

_“Searching von Evil’s room,”_ Vassiliev replied promptly. _“However, he searched several other rooms in the house first.”_ Fernandez’s eyes narrowed at this news, while Curt did his best to keep his expression open and confused by the conversation around him.

_“Did you find what you were looking for?”_ Fernandez asked, approaching Curt.

“¿Hola?” Curt said again, eyes darting between the three men he could see, trying not to let his gaze rest on Owen longer than the others. “¿Donde está la biblioteca?”

Fernandez laughed, light and friendly, _“You are going to die slowly and in great pain,”_ he smiled again, putting his hand on Curt’s shoulder, staring intently into Curt’s eyes.

Curt relaxed, following the suggestion of Fernandez’s tone, letting his muscles loosen and a small grin cross his face, “Sí, ¿bueno?” He tried, searching for easy phrases any U.S. citizen might be able to recall, stressing the wrong syllables, and speaking slowly like he was struggling to remember the words.

Fernandez nodded as though Curt had passed a test, turning around to face the others in the room, _“The United States must think very little of Argentina if they send an agent who cannot even speak the official language to infiltrate our country.”_

_“He’s a spy?”_ Owen asked.

_“Yes, my friend, as you well know since you have been working with him,”_ Fernandez pulled a gun from inside his suitcoat, pointing it at Owen.

Curt tensed again, pulling against the hold Vassiliev had on him, before settling back into a resting stance to wait for what happened next.

_“What are you doing?”_ Owen demanded of Fernandez, moving away slightly. His new position placed himself, von Evil, and the duo of Vassiliev and Curt in an almost triangle around Fernandez, so he had to constantly turn in order to directly address anyone.

“Shhh,” Fernandez soothed. “I think we will speak English now, for the benefit of our spy friend. He must be feeling very excluded.”

“Hey, you guys know American,” Curt said obnoxiously. “Wait, who’s a spy?”

Vassiliev shook Curt like a ragdoll. He decided to shut up, playing stupid only lasted so long before they decided a bullet in the head was less trouble.

“How long have you been working with the United States?” Fernandez asked Owen. “Don’t deny it,” he said when Owen started to shake his head. “Four days ago Vassiliev approached me, he said that the U.S. would be sending a spy to my country in search of information on the Nazi fugitive, Commander von Evil. He suspected that the agent wouldn’t be working alone and offered to work together in order to root out any traitors in our government. Then, three nights ago, I find you going through my private papers. The next day you press me for information regarding the same Nazi fugitive and ask for a meeting with him,” the gun didn’t waver even when Fernandez’s voice did, switching back to Spanish. _“You have taken me for a fool for months now, but it ends tonight.”_

“Matías,” Owen’s eyes darted between the different parties in the room, lingering longest on Fernandez. “You _know_ that I would never betray you.”

“It happened months ago,” Fernandez said. “Before we met, before…before. You were already a spy for the U.S. when you came to my government offering to sell secrets from our political rivals.”

“Where are you getting these insane ideas?” Owen asked.

“Vassiliev has known for some time that a Western spy was working against our interests, he informed that the same spy had foiled some Soviet plots as well,” Fernandez shrugged. “It seemed expedient to expose the spy and their handler for the benefits of both our governments. I never expected it to be you.”

“If Perón learns that you are working with the Soviets, violating his vow of neutrality, he will be furious. It isn’t safe,” Owen said sounding desperate.

”The President will never learn about any of this,” Fernandez assured Owen. “Your treachery would only weaken my position and, as you say, he wouldn’t approve of my methods. Vassiliev will take the U.S. spy and you will have an…unfortunate and fatal accident.”

Curt had heard enough, “That’s a great plan, just a couple of problems: he’s not my contact and I’m not anyone’s handler.”

Fernandez turned to face Curt, “You would say that, it’s your job to protect your asset.”

“That would be true, if I were the American spy in charge of this region.”

Vassiliev let go of Curt’s collar, and keeping a hand on his shoulder, turned him so they faced each other. “What do you mean?”

“I’m a rookie agent,” Curt shrugged one shoulder. “The number of missions I’ve been on haven’t even reached the double digits yet. It’s not surprising really, I mean, I’m an idiot and even I could tell that there was something fishy about this assignment, my boss probably figured it out the minute she read the briefing.”

“You’re suggesting they sent you here to be captured?” Vassiliev scoffed.

“No, I’m suggesting that my agency couldn’t take the chance that the documents von Evil was selling to your government were genuinely dangerous, but they also couldn’t risk a high-level agent in what was most likely a trap, so they sent me,” Curt smiled.

“Why are you smiling?” Fernandez asked. “If you are correct and telling the truth, then your own agency sent you into a trap, to die.”

“Nothing really, just, I finally figured out the answer to a question that had been bugging me,” Curt answered.

“This is ridiculous,” Curt turned his head, looking at the new speaker. Von Evil had remained silent until now, content to watch the drama unfold, but his face had taken on a peculiar pinched-red hue as the conversation had evolved. “My research documents are priceless! Every great power wants to buy from me. I am a-”

“Shut up,” Vassiliev said, he kept hold of Curt but turned the gun on von Evil. “You were a pawn. A useful distraction for a time, yes, but ultimately expendable.”

“You can’t talk to me that way. I am an honored guest of—” the suppressed crack of the gun barely disturbed the air. Von Evil simply crumpled to the floor, an expanding pool of red flowing from the wound in his chest.

“Enough,” Vassiliev aimed the gun at von Evil’s body, firing a coup de grâce shot to his head. “I did not spend four years fighting Nazis to listen to this little shit.”

Curt could still feel his adrenaline pumping from the shock of the execution, it felt like a drum solo was happening in his ears. He looked to Owen who nodded slightly, now or never.

Curt dropped to the floor, dead weight dragging Vassiliev off balance, from the corner of his eye he saw Owen pick up his glass and throw it at Fernandez. Unable to focus on the fight to the side of him, Curt concentrated on the one he was in the middle of, kicking out at Vassiliev’s knee with all his strength. He heard something crack, loud and awful, not stopping Curt rolled to the right and popped up behind Vassiliev. Grabbing the index finger of his gun hand, Curt snapped it backwards, using Vassiliev’s pain and distraction to grab the gun, pistol-whipping him over the head.

As Vassiliev fell unconscious to the floor, Curt turned, stolen gun up and ready to assist Owen; who was standing over a downed Fernandez. Owen had the other man’s weapon pointed at Fernandez’s head.

_“Do it,”_ Fernandez whispered, they had switched back to Spanish.

_“I can’t, please don’t make me,”_ Curt had never head Owen sound so broken, not even during his breakdown earlier. _“It doesn’t have to be this way.”_

_“You’re a spy, it was always going to end like this,”_ Fernandez looked up at Owen. 

Owen dropped to his knees in front of Fernandez, the gun going slack in his hand. _“You were never supposed to find out. I’m sorry, none of this was supposed to happen.”_

_“Are you sorry for lying to me, or sorry I discovered the lie?”_ Fernandez asked, leaning in toward Owen. _“I don’t even know your real name, do I?”_

Owen shook his head, silent.

_“No,”_ Fernandez affirmed. He lunged for the gun, Owen fell backwards, startled. Another sharp pop sounded in the room.

Owen looked from where Fernandez lay on the ground to where Curt stood, Vassiliev’s gun in hand.

“We need to go,” Curt said, lowering the gun.

_“Goodbye, love,”_ Owen whispered, smoothing his hand down Fernandez’s lapel in the gentlest of caresses. He stood, facing Curt, switching back to English “We have work to do first.”


	4. Spy Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What happened after I left you behind in the Russian weapons facility?”

_Whisper a dangerous secret to someone you care about. Now they have the power to destroy you, but they won’t. This is what love is.  
— @NightValeRadio_

1961 – The New Democratic Republics of Old Socialist Prussian Slovaskia

“What happened after I left you behind in the Russian weapons facility?”

The question sits heavy in the scant space between them, making the air feel thick and oppressive; the sensation reminds Curt of the eerie stillness that comes just before a thunderstorm. When he was a kid, he used to love that feeling. Now Curt knows better, he’s been electrocuted, thank you very much, and isn’t looking forward to experiencing the sensation again.

Metaphorically or otherwise. 

“I saw you run,” Owen says at last, his tense shoulders, the only sign of his discomfort. “I was barely conscious, but I remember thinking that you were going for help,” Owen rubs his hand against his leg like he’s massaging out an old pain. “That’s probably the most naïve I’ve ever been.”

“I thought you were dead,” Curt tries again to explain. “I thought I had _killed_ you.”

“Maybe you did,” Owen digs so hard at his leg, he must be hurting himself.

“Owen-”

“No,” a sharp crack like thunder cutting Curt off, “my turn now. You want to know how I could turn my back on everything we believed in? How I could turn my back on my country, my home…us?” Owen flexes the fingers which had been grinding into his thigh. “You all betrayed me first. I don’t just mean when you left me in that Russian Weapons Facility, although that was a real first-class asshole move, but after.”

“What do you mean?” Curt asks confused and a little afraid of the answer.

“You left. I realized I wouldn’t survive a secondary explosion should the fire from the initial blast reach the armory, so I dragged myself underneath the staircase. Just in time as it turns out,” Owen traces the bedspread’s uneven stitching. “I remember noise and heat and then…nothing. I woke in the hospital. A blessing, I was assured. The Russian emergency services dug me out of the rubble, it was a miracle I survived.”

“Why- I don’t mean this how it sounds, but why did they save you?”

“No offense taken old boy; I wasn’t myself at the time remember?” Owen grins, brief sunlight. “My cover ID was good enough to fool twenty Russian security officers, Oleg, and the KGB cleanup team who came to investigate after the explosion.”

“But I looked for you under that name,” Curt says, no less baffled. “I searched every hospital in a fifty-mile radius, then a hundred miles. I went to the room of every survivor pulled from the facility looking for you, just in case…but you were— _how_ —I don’t understand. How did I lose you?”

“You did what?”

“I searched for you after the mission, Owen,” Curt confirms. “I didn’t want to believe you were dead, but I had to be sure, just in case.”

“When- when did you start looking for me?” Owen stands abruptly, pacing from peeling wallpaper to spotted bedspread and back again, ending with his back to Curt, facing the wall.

“As soon as I got back from delivering the blueprints to Barb, roundtrip with the debrief, maybe fourteen hours,” Curt remembers the time stretching out forever back then, desperate to return.

“More than enough time,” Owen whispers to the wallpaper.

“Enough time for what?” Curt asks concerned, the rigid line of Owen’s shoulders has spread through every line of his body, leaving him taut like a bow ready to fire.

“For MI6 to make me disappear,” Owen clarifies, still addressing the wall. “They told me that they were changing my cover identity, to make it harder to tie the injured man in hospital with the one from the blast, just in case the KGB started getting curious. It made it easier to move me across the Iron Curtain as well, for treatment. By the time I was back in England they had shuffled me through four different identities.

“During my convalesce I was informed that Her Majesty’s Secret Service no longer had need of me and that I was to be retired, I could go quietly, with a new identity and modest pension, or loudly; with a bullet to put me out of my misery.”

“I didn’t know,” Curt says helplessly.

“That wasn’t the worst of it,” Owen warns, finally turning to face Curt. “You _abandoning_ me in that facility hurt, yes. But you not coming back for me, for months, that’s what killed me,” he smiles coldly, a touch of the Deadliest Man about his lips. “That’s what killed us.”

“Owen, I _didn’t know,_ ” Curt stands moving to where Owen is pressed, back against the wall. “I swear, I thought you were dead.”

“Your agency didn’t.”

The words are, well, shocking. “What?”

“MI6 made it abundantly clear that I was never going to be a spy again. Left with no other recourse I attempted to backchannel with the Americans,” Owen sneers. “I was informed that they were aware of my situation and that my services were not needed or wanted.”

“Cynthia?”

“No, as a potential traitor to my country, my dealings were with the CIA. Director Dulles turned me down himself.”

Curt heaves a relieved breath, there was a chance she didn’t know. “So what happened next?” He asks, “You’re obviously not dead. Did you fake retirement?”

“No. I found a third option,” Owen says.

“Chimera.”

Owen nods.

“I still don’t understand,” Curt shakes his head. “I get that you were badly wounded, but you’ve clearly recovered. You were the best spy any agency had ever seen, well second best after me. How could two countries be so willing to write you off?”

“I’ve always been better and we both know it, Curt. And as for the other matter, it’s very simple dear boy, the doctors all said that I had zero chance of a full recovery, not surprising considering the extent of my injuries,” Owen sighs. “Even if I were to return to some semblance of my former self, they insisted that I would always be impaired due to my disability.”

“Your what?” Curt asks. Owen seems to enjoy shocking Curt, it’s a bad habit.

Owen hesitates a moment then raps hard against his left leg, the same one he had been massaging earlier, a dull thud sounding in the room. “I told you I left part of me behind in that Russian weapons facility, I wasn’t just being metaphorical.”

“How?” Curt reaches out, hands hovering over Owen’s leg, unsure of his welcome. At a nod from Owen he lets himself touch, feeling something hard and unyielding where there once was giving flesh.

“As I said, Chimera offered me an alternative, they gave me a chance to be a spy again,” Owen lays his fingers over Curt’s shaking hand. “Chimera has access to the most incredible technology I have ever seen Curt. Including the most advanced medical equipment. When both of our governments kicked me to the curb, Chimera healed me, saved me, gave me a new leg.” Owen’s voice drops to a whisper, low and seductive, “Your own people didn’t tell you that I was alive. They let you grieve for years, because they saw me as damaged goods, not worth their time. Do you really believe that you’re on the right side of this fight?”

*

1951 – Buenos Aires

Curt watched Owen search the body of his dead…something, taking Fernandez’s keys, wallet, and any other identifying items. The shattered man of a few moments ago was gone, in his place was a coldly efficient spy, finishing his mission. It was an unsettling, if extremely attractive—time and place Curt—transformation.

“We need to buy time for us to get out of the country, the continent if possible,” Owen said. “I’ll go to Matías’ flat and make it look like he’s running. Take his passport, some clothes, confidential documents, the usual. Then I’ll go by my flat and remove any incriminating evidence. Meanwhile you take care of things here.”

“I make it look like Fernandez killed you and von Evil, you make it look like he’s fleeing the country,” Curt nodded, seeing the shape of Owen’s plan. “It might work.”

“We just need to confuse the authorities long enough for us to make our extraction rendezvous. With luck and a good enough frame job, we might even be able to keep my cover intact, Perón will never know that he had a foreign agent in his inner circle,” Owen began removing his personal belongings. “You’ll need to place these on” his voice faltered a little before regaining strength. “Matías and I are about the same height and weight, put these on the body, it should help sell the identity swap.”

“The fire will do the rest,” Curt took Owen’s things, choosing not to comment on his momentary slip. “You’ll need to leave your car here. Clear it out before you go. The getaway car I prepped in case everything went tits up is parked about a quarter-mile down the road, drive up here and transfer your stuff over before you leave.”

“Right.”

“We meet back up at the safehouse in La Plata,” Curt said. “I’ll make the call to my handler, find out the arrangements for pickup.”

“Sounds fine,” Owen said terse and already halfway out the door.

Curt started staging the crime scene; he placed Owen’s possessions on Fernandez’s body, patting him down to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. Missed anything.

“Sonofabitch.” Curt still hadn’t found the documents the Soviets were buying. He ran back upstairs to finish his interrupted search, finding von Evil’s research hidden under his mattress.

“Cynthia never needs to hear about this part,” Curt muttered, rushing back to the den. Giving the papers a quick glance, Curt reassured himself that his instincts had been correct, none of the data was dated more recently than 1945. It was highly unlikely that anything useful would be found here, but Cynthia would still want it.

After about five minutes, Curt heard car tires on the gravel drive outside. Probably just Owen…still, he’d already had guns pointed at him once tonight. Curt took cover behind the door.

“It’s me,” Owen called out softly.

Curt relaxed, opening the door with a small bow, “You’re back fast, run the whole- what’s that?” Curt’s gentle teasing was interrupted as he noticed what Owen was holding.

Owen held up a vial and a syringe. “I had some rather potent sedatives in my car, always be prepared, you know. I thought we could properly dose our Soviet friend rather than continuing to bonk him on the head and risk permanently damaging whatever information he may have.”

“Right, no that’s great,” Curt waved Owen forward, a little creeped out and a lot turned on. He really needed to stop finding the scarily efficient side of Owen quite so attractive at inappropriate moments. Especially since Curt was pretty sure Owen hated him for shooting his…something.

Vassiliev had been quiet while Curt worked, coming around shortly after Owen left. Now he began struggling against the restraints they had used to tie him up and yelled curses into his makeshift gag.

“He doesn’t seem very keen,” Owen noted, carefully measuring out a dose. “I imagine he was rather hoping to catch us unawares and turn the tables. Sorry old chap.” Owen jabbed the needle into the meaty part of Vassiliev’s thigh. Within moments his eyes began to droop and soon he was out like a light.

Curt smiled his thanks, “That’ll make transporting him to the safehouse a lot easier. Safer too.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Owen wouldn’t meet Curt’s eyes as he rose and turned to leave. “I’ve put the rest of the sedative in your getaway car. Dosage instructions are in the case. I need to go now, it’s a long hike back into the city.”

“There’s a bike out by the gardener’s shed,” Curt offered, like an olive branch. “Should cut your time down some.”

Owen nodded his head in acknowledgement and was gone. Curt got back to work.

He finished arranging the scene, then went over to the drinks trolley and began pouring out the liquor around the room. 

“That is a damn shame,” Curt paused over a bottle of very nice whiskey, taking a quick swig. “Oh that’s the good stuff,” he looked from the bottle to the blood and gore spattered room. “Not ‘til the job’s done,” he dumped the rest of the whiskey, then took all the empty bottles and von Evil’s research outside.

The research went in the getaway car, the empty liquor bottles Curt used as receptacles for gas he siphoned from Jacques Clouseau’s car. Going back inside Curt began dousing various parts of the house to ensure a quick and thorough burn. He saved most of the gas for the two bodies.

The worst job done, Curt hauled Vassiliev up over his shoulder and carried him out to the getaway car. “I would apologize for this, having first-hand experience with how uncomfortable your trip is going to be,” Curt said, dumping Vassiliev into the already open trunk. “But you were kind of a dick.”

Curt briefly lamented the security precautions which necessitated clearing the trunk before putting the Russian agent inside, but closed and locked the trunk regardless, taking comfort in the getaway car’s trunk space being much less roomy than Owen’s had been.

Taking the last gasoline-filled bottle, Curt shoved a rag inside the top, lit it on fire and threw the improvised device inside the front door. He stayed just long enough to see the fire spread to entire first floor, before getting into his car and driving away.

It was about an hour from Buenos Aires to La Plata, along the way Curt stopped and used a payphone to call his handler, the agent actually responsible for this section of South America. He reported an edited version of the past few days events and ended with the need for immediate extraction and prisoner transfer. His controller officer ordered Curt to lay low for the next twelve hours, at which point he was to call in again and receive instructions for the extraction of himself, Agent Carvour, and their Soviet prisoner.

Curt hung up the phone, cursing long-distance bureaucrats who couldn’t make a move without checking in first with headquarters. He reached the safehouse without incident and settled in to wait. An hour after arriving, he had to give Vassiliev another shot, carefully following the instructions Owen had left for him. Two hours after arriving he began regretting sedating the only other person in the house. Three hours after arriving Curt started to worry that Owen was taking such a long time.

After four hours of sitting around with nothing to do but think of worst-case scenarios, and another dosing of Vassiliev, Curt was ready throw regulations out the window and go back to Buenos Aires. He was in the process of yet another argument with himself about the merits of this plan when he heard a creak outside the door.

Pulling Fernandez’s gun (Vassiliev’s had been left wiped of prints back at the estate) Curt ducked behind the threadbare sofa and waited.

“You know,” a familiar voice called. “We really should have a code-phrase for situations like this.”

“Situations like this?” Curt asked, relaxing the moment he heard the limey bastard.

“Yes, you on one side of the door undoubtedly holding a gun, and me on the other,” Owen explained.

“Do you want to come up with one?” Curt went to the door.

“Seems a bit like closing the gate once the horses have fled, but it’s worth a try,” Owen was smiling when Curt opened the door.

“The expression is, shutting the barn door after the horse has bolted,” Curt said, eyes scanning quickly over Owen to make sure he was in one piece.

“How colloquial,” Owen walked inside. “Any trouble on your end?”

“No, yours?”

“A bit. It took longer than I expected to bicycle back to the city,” Owen almost collapsed onto the sofa. “I had also completely forgotten about my girlfriend. Or rather, Jacques Clouseau’s girlfriend, Ana.”

“Shit, right,” Curt had forgotten about her too, he sat near Owen, but was careful not to crowd him. “The rabble-rouser from a fringe Socialist group. Fuck, your life has been complicated.”

“You have no idea,” Owen rubbed his hands over his eyes tiredly. “Since the whole point of all this awful work was to try and maintain my cover, thank you for your part in the dirty business by the way that couldn’t have been pleasant, I had to break things off with Ana in such a way that she wouldn’t go poking around.”

“What did you tell her?”

“First I had to speak with her. She was in a meeting with other leaders of the movement, that’s what took so long. I couldn’t very well barge in and insist on her undivided attention, not without attracting a lot of unwanted notice for myself,” Owen sighed. “When we finally got to speak, I told her a version of the truth. That my contact within Perón’s government had discovered my treachery and had been killed. That I was faking my death in order to escape punishment. And that we would never see each other again. It was all very dramatic and emotional.”

“I’m sorry,” Curt blurted, unable to keep it in any longer.

“Don’t be, the act of acting distraught was more exhausting than the encounter itself,” Owen smiled wearily. “I just need to have a kip.”

“No, I mean,” Curt braced himself for whatever backlash may come. “I’m sorry about Matías.”

Owen stilled, his entire body stiff, “He was going to shoot me, you did what you had to do.”

“That doesn’t make it any easier,” Curt closed his eyes, against this final blow. “I speak Spanish fluently.”

“Yes,” Owen whispered, his face draining of color. “I thought you might.”

Curt reached over, taking Owen’s hand, the other man jumped like there was an electric current running through him. “It’s okay, I get it.”

“Curt,” Owen began, seemingly at a loss for words.

“No, Owen,” Curt said again turning to face Owen, begging him to understand. “I _get_ it.”

“You get it,” Owen repeated back faintly.

“Yeah,” Curt shrugged awkwardly. “I do.”

“Oh,” Owen sat back against the sofa. _"Oh._ So you…get it."

Curt was tempted to laugh at the ridiculous conversation. Instead he held Owen’s hand a little tighter, “You never have anything to be afraid of from me, not about this.” He sighed a relieved breath when he felt Owen squeeze his hand in response.

“He was the first,” Owen said, voice hushed and secretive. “I never let myself before. It felt okay, because it wasn’t really me, you know? I was Jacques Clouseau and he was the one taking all the risks, not Owen Carvour.”

“Can I ask,” Curt hesitated. “Did you love him?”

“Yes,” Owen smiled sadly, letting go of Curt’s hand. “And no. Jacques loved him and while I was Jacques, so did I, if that makes sense.” He continued seeing Curt’s frown of confusion, “There was nothing real about our relationship, it was built entirely on lies, first mine then his. The man he thought I was didn’t exist, but within that fabrication, I do believe we loved each other. At least, we loved who we thought the other person was.”

Curt wavered a moment, uncertain but needing the answer to this question, “Can you ever forgive me?”

“What?” Owen turned to Curt, a questioning expression on his face.

“In three days I managed to blow your cover, compromise six months of undercover work, and murder your lover,” Curt shook his head. “I know that I shouldn’t even ask, but-”

“Curt,” Owen reached out to Curt this time, placing a hand on his knee. “There’s nothing to forgive. My assignment was over anyway, MI6 had been threatening to pull me for weeks unless I came up with some serious intel. I was delaying the inevitable because, well because I wasn’t ready to end the fantasy I suppose.”

“Great, so our agencies sent me in to bungle things and force you home?”

“No, as you so aptly put it earlier, your agency sent you here to be captured by the Soviets, or to prove that you were good enough to not be captured by the Soviets. I imagine MI6 also saw this as an opportunity to reaffirm my loyalties,” Owen sounded angry for the first time tonight. “We were both disposable assets to them, Curt. You do see that right? You are a young and as-yet unproven spy. And my first deep-cover mission, while successful, didn’t yield any vital information, undoubtedly leading them to question my allegiance.”

“If we pulled off the assignment, it would only be by working together,” Curt didn’t like this line of thought, but couldn’t deny the logic. “I would prove that I was capable of more serious assignments and you would prove that you hadn’t been compromised, because you helped me take down and bring in a Soviet agent.”

Owen shrugged delicately, “After Maclean and Burgess defected to the U.S.S.R. earlier this year, I can’t really blame the SIS for being suspicious of every agent.”

“Not to mention our troubles with the Rosenberg’s,” Curt groaned. “It’s been all over the papers, married Soviet spies.” He looked down at Owen’s hand still resting on Curt’s knee, a damning caress were anyone else to see them. “I guess it’s not surprising that our agencies don’t trust us.”

“No,” Owen said softly. “Trust is very hard to come by in our line of work.”

Curt swallowed hard, unsaid words giving weight to the air between them. He sternly reminded himself that they were professionals on a job, and he was not the type to take advantage of another man when he was vulnerable and grieving(?) his pseudo boyfriend.

Okay, he was totally the type to take advantage, but considering Curt was the cause of the aforementioned sorta boyfriend’s demise, it was a little weird even for him.

Then again, Owen was super-hot. Like dangerous hot.

No. Man of honor. On a job. Working.

“We should probably go over our statements,” Curt said loudly, pulling away from Owen, and when had he started leaning towards him? “So that they’ll match before I call in again.”

“Right, good,” Owen blinked quickly then shifted over to grab a pad of paper leaving Curt to mourn the loss of Owen’s warmth pressed against his side.

They spent the next couple of hours going over their edited statements regarding the mission, with intermittent pauses to re-drug Vassiliev. The rest of the day was spent sleeping in shifts, drugging Vassiliev, conversing on lighter topics…and drugging Vassiliev.

“We’re not gonna kill him with an overdose before he gets back to the States are we?” Curt asked slightly worried as the Russian slipped once again into unconsciousness.

“No, these sedatives were formulated for long-term use, he’ll be fine,” Owen went back to the novel he had taken with him from his flat.

At last it was time to leave; the three men, Curt driving, Vassiliev in the trunk, and Owen under a blanket in the backseat, made their way to a payphone to call-in. Their instructions were to go to the port, take the ship waiting for them to a U.S. naval vessel anchored far offshore, sail up the coast for a day until they reached another port town where a plane would be waiting to take them back to D.C.

“I’m stopping over in D.C. as well?” Owen asked from under his blanket as they drove.

“Yeah, the better for a joint debrief,” Curt said. “Don’t worry, Cynthia said it shouldn’t take more than a few days,” he debated briefly with himself before adding. “If you need a place to crash, I have a couch that’s lumpy and torturous.”

“Thanks ever so,” Owen said, laughter muffled by the blanket. “Have you ever considered becoming a salesman?”

“Nah,” Curt said, eyes fixed on the road ahead. “Once a spy always a spy, it’s who I am.”

*

1961 – The New Democratic Republics of Old Socialist Prussian Slovaskia

Curt doesn’t allow himself many illusions, it’s dangerous in his line of work. The only one he’s really held onto is his belief that he does more good than harm in the world. Years ago, without really noticing, he let that belief grow to encompass a nearly blind faith in Owen Carvour. For what is faith, but a form of belief? Now he extends that belief into the trust he has in his team, in Tatiana and Barb. He even holds back a little bit for Cynthia, when she isn’t trying to kill him.

Curt isn’t naïve, he knows that the agency can’t be trusted. Knows that they toy with and throw away agents like game pieces. His life is expendable and his lifestyle a liability. But he has always believed that this is a sacrifice worth making to ensure the liberties of innocent people. The same people that Chimera will exploit and harm with their surveillance network.

Owen used to share his beliefs.

Curt reaches up, gently cupping Owen’s cheek. “What happened to you?” He asks again, softer this time.

“I already told you,” Owen pulls back, leaving Curt hanging in midair. “I was abandoned, and Chimera saved me.”

“No,” Curt says, all conviction. “That’s a version of the truth you’ve been telling yourself to reconcile the man you were with your actions.”

“Chimera is the future, Curt. It’s everything we ever dreamed about,” Owen catches Curt’s hand as it begins to fall, moving it back to his cheek. “No more agencies telling us who to be. Who to love. No more secrets.”

Curt takes a moment to look at Owen, really look at him; the smile trying to distract from the shadows under his eyes, the warm tan over a too-thin frame, the elegant hands with a marksman’s calluses. Everything about him is gorgeous and just a little bit sharp, like if Curt presses too hard, he might bleed.

“We don’t have the right to tell those secrets,” Curt whispers, his hand slipping from Owen’s. “You’re right, the world we live in is wrong. The agencies are wrong. The rules and the laws are wrong,” he closes his eyes, willing the tears he feels not to fall. “But that doesn’t mean that you’re right. And that doesn’t mean that Chimera is the answer.”

“So where does that leave us?” Owen asks hopelessly.

“Taking the third option,” Curt says simply. “We go rogue.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Owen blinks in reply.

“It’s a perfect plan, we stop being spies,” Curt waves at the air, voice gaining excitement as his brain catches up to his mouth. “Well officially, sanctioned, whatever.”

“In case it has escaped your notice, darling, I’m already not sanctioned,” Owen smirks.

“Yeah, but you’re working for an evil,” Curt backpedals at Owen’s glare, “Um…I mean multinational, super-secret, and mysterious conglomerate with an ominous name that doesn’t at all make me think your hidden base is inside of a volcano.”

“Truly, you are the master of tact.”

“I try. Anyway,” Curt continues unconcerned, “we both have backers, is my point. I have the U.S. Government and you have Chimera. So we go rogue, free-ball it.”

“You quite literally could not have made that pitch any less appealing,” Owen wrinkles his face.

“Okay, fine. Operate without a safety net?”

“You do realize the safety net is there for a reason, Curt? How many times have we needed emergency extractions or supplies that an individual couldn’t provide? Hell documentation alone is impossible for a non-governmental or,” Owen rolls his eyes, “a non-super-secret conglomerate, to obtain.”

“Yes, and that is why we’ll,” Curt pauses, “freelance”.

“How is that any different from simply working for any of these organizations, other than a lack of security?”

“Well…for one thing, we pick the assignments, no more assassinations,” Curt offers, totally not making this up as he goes and nailing it, if you ask him.

“We’re unproven freelancers, you’ve been out of the business for four years and botched your first assignment back, I’ve been working for an enemy organization,” Owen says dryly. “What are the odds that any reputable agency will hire us, let alone allow us to do anything other than wet work?”

“Because our spy firm will have a flawless reputation,” Curt smiles.

“Our what now?”

“Thank about it, Owen. You and me, partners. Real partners, no more being assigned together on the whim of our agencies, working together permanently. Officially,” Curt licks his lips, moving nearer to Owen. “We can do whatever we want together. If you want to take down shady government dealings, then that’s what we do,” Curt promises. “The rules won’t matter because we’ll be the ones making the rules.”

“What about Chimera?” Owen asks.

Curt taps his forehead against Owen’s, just once, a gentle giving in to the need to be close. “I know you owe them a lot, but Owen, what they plan to do is wrong. Innocent people will be hurt,” he begs Owen to understand, to be on his side. “Please.”

“Tell me what happened to you, after I didn’t die,” Owen says, searching Curt’s eyes.

“What?”

“You are asking me to give up, everything,” Owen pulls away slightly. “Give me a reason to say, ‘yes’, tell me your side of what happened.”

Curt nods, disentangling himself from Owen, “You know that I searched for you,” he says, to Owen’s acknowledgement. “After I couldn’t find you, after I was certain that you were dead, that I had killed you…I stopped.”

“What do you mean,” Owen asks.

“I mean exactly that, I just stopped…living. I stopped shaving, bathing, eating. I stopped everything,” he crosses his arms, uncomfortable. “Barb got me back home, don’t really remember how, and checked me into a hospital, they diagnosed it as some kind of traumatic shock.”

“How did you start again?”

“It was Cynthia,” Curt says. “She said some harsh but true things, really made me think about how I was dishonoring your memory and letting everybody down.

“And then she stabbed me in the stomach. Told me that I could either lay in bed and bleed to death or get some fucking medical attention, either way, she wasn’t going to let me get blood on her shoes and walked out.”

“Jesus, that woman is psychotic,” Owen pales.

“Yeah, she’s the best,” Curt says fondly. “I probably never would have gotten up if it weren’t for her. I mean, because of her I needed an extra three weeks of bedrest, but you know what I mean.”

Owen just shakes his head.

“Anywho,” Curt frowns slightly at Owen’s reaction. “After that I tried to go back to work, but I just, I couldn’t. Cynthia kept me out of the field, but I couldn’t even do paperwork. I was fucking up the simplest of tasks,” he averts his gaze. “It probably didn’t help that when I got out of the hospital, I found a new way of numbing myself until I didn’t feel anything.”

“How much were you drinking?” Owen asks, concern in his voice.

Curt looks back at him, “You knew,” he laughs bitterly. “Of course you knew, I didn’t exactly make my little habit a secret, did I?”

“No,” Owen replies softly.

“I did my best to keep everything fuzzy on a pretty much permanent basis,” Curt says. “You know what the funny thing is?” He asks grimly.

Owen shakes his head, no.

“I became a spy again because of you,” Curt laughs, harsh and short. “Yeah, after four years wallowing in my own filth and misery, I thought ‘Owen would be ashamed of you, Curt.” So I put down the bottle and I came out of my early retirement, because I _believed_ that it was what you would have wanted me to do.”

Curt walks away from Owen as far as he can; but is trapped in this room, this conversation, this endless cycle of hurt and confession.

“I would have,” Owen says.

“What?”

“I spent years plotting my revenge, Curt. It wouldn’t have been very effective if you had still been a retried drunkard, would it?” Owen shrugs.

“Gee, thanks, I feel better,” Curt says sarcastically.

“I won’t apologize, Curt, I can’t” Owen says harshly. “Not for Chimera or leaving. Fuck, not even for betraying my country.” He walks over to Curt, pressing him against the wall where Curt sought refuge. “What’s more, I’m not sorry for anything I did and given the same choices, I would probably do it all again.”

“This is not nearly as reassuring as you think it is.”

“Would you shut up for two seconds together and let me tell you that you’re right?” Owen snaps.

“Wait-what?” Curt searches Owen’s face, finding exasperation (normal) and sincerity.

“The only way is forward, Curt. That’s what I was trying to say,” Owen sighs. “We have enough history to bury us if we let it. Self-recrimination leads nowhere and I don’t have time for it; the future is happening Curt, and I want to be there to meet it,” Owen extends his arm, waiting expectantly for Curt to bridge the gap. “I want to meet it with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We made it out of their first mission together! It only took four chapters and a couple of deaths, but we did it guys.
> 
> Because I decided to have Owen go full Winter Soldier (it's an homage not a ripoff) there may also be some period-typical ableism and internalized ableism. If it rises to the point of needing a warning, I'll add it in the tags. If it rises to that point and I haven't added it yet, tell me, and I will add the warnings immediately.
> 
> I also have decided to call the final 1961 scene: the staircase variant, some dialogue was heavily inspired by the final staircase scene in SAF, but no direct quotes.
> 
> Fun history notes: The Cambridge Spy Ring (also known as The Cambridge Five) was a famous spy ring in Britain, Donald Maclean and Guy Burgess were the first two spies to defect to the U.S.S.R. in early 1951. Julius Rosenberg was an American scientist, he and his wife Ethel, were tried and convicted of spying for the U.S.S.R. in 1951, executed in 1953. CIA Director Allen Dulles was the first civilian and longest serving director of the CIA from 1953-1961, he was fired by JFK after the Bay of Pigs. (When RL gives you morally dubious CIA Directors who were involved in multiple attempts to overthrow foreign governments, use them in your fic.)


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